


Moving In

by StacPolly



Series: Advent is for Cheese [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StacPolly/pseuds/StacPolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from Sara's Girl's All Must Draw Near-verse, tying up with my 'Advent is for Cheese'.</p><p>Harry turns up on Draco's doorstep one night after work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Offer He Can't Refuse

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All Must Draw Near](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210501) by [Saras_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saras_Girl/pseuds/Saras_Girl). 



> Nat very kindly said I could continue to play with her broomstick shop owning Harry and Draco from All Must Draw Near. I have quite a few missing scenes in my head and this particular scene dates from the early days of Harry and Draco's foray into the broomstick selling business, so it pre-dates both AMDN and The More Loving One.

Draco opens the door a slither. He’s not accustomed to visitors, especially not at this time of night. Oh. He pulls his dressing gown tightly around himself.

“Is the shop all right?”

Harry has never actually come to his flat before, except just that once, when he brought the business contract over to sign. On the doorstep. He didn’t ask and Harry didn’t push. It’s not that Draco doesn’t _want_ to invite him in - it’s just it’s so awful. So grim. So - not Malfoy Manor. And he’s used to people judging that sort of thing. Although not being Malfoy Manor is possibly a plus when it comes to Harry.

“‘Mione and Ron are moving in together.”

“Oh. Then -” The end of the golden trio. Ah. He pushes the door wide. “You’d better come in.”

Harry’s glance seems to see right through his dressing gown and to his flying snitch pyjamas underneath. “Sorry. It’s late. I hadn’t realised. I can -- we can talk about it at work if you like. I just - I don’t know why I -.” He trails off.

Draco steps back. “You’ve woken me up now. You might as well come in.” He passes down the minute hall to the sitting room, trying not to shudder as he sees the flat through someone else’s eyes for the first time. It’s a hell of a lot better than the old bedsit, but though the shop has brought in enough money for a bigger place, he’s been spending all his spare time at the shop or, more recently, out with Harry and the others.

Harry shrugs off his coat and drops it on the sofa arm. “This is -” He looks round, ending, lamely, with “Nice.”

Draco snorts as he throws a quick _Incendio_ at the fireplace. “Sit down, Harry. Whisky?”

“Thanks.” Harry sinks down on the sofa and Draco goes to find the decent stuff in the kitchen cabinet.

Coming back into the sitting room he startles for a second. Harry, in his flat. He’s even kicked his shoes off.

“Make yourself at home, Potter.”

Harry looks up. “Sorry - I’ve been on my feet all day, and then I went back - home, and Hermione had cooked this amazing meal, and it didn’t even _occur_ to me - until they sat down opposite me like an Auror interview panel.” He trails off helplessly.

Draco looks him over carefully. He looks strung out and tired. And a little bit lost. His fingers are also tapping that way they do when he’s missed lunch and had far too much coffee. Oh for -

“Have you eaten?”

There’s silence as Harry visibly goes over the last few hours. “Not since. Um. Breakfast. I guess. There was a rush in the shop at lunchtime, and I just got up and left the flat. I suppose I’d better call ‘Mione.”

“You certainly had,” Draco agrees. “You know what she’s like.” He tosses over the jar of Floo powder, hoping it’s not past its sell by date. “Use this.”

Harry remains seated. “Um. I - could you do it, Draco.” He looks up beseechingly. “Please.”

Draco nods. “All right, but don’t blame me if she sends the Aurors out after you.”

He throws the Floo Powder into the fireplace. It’s ridiculously small. No good for actual flooing and even the floo calls are crackly and smoke-obscured. Harry retreats to the kitchen behind him.

Hermione answers, her hair frazzled, and red about the eyes.

“Oh _Draco_. I thought it might be -”

Ron pushes his face into the tiny space. “Have you seen Harry? He got a bit upset about something and you know what he’s -”

Hermione shushes him. “We should have thought it through better, Ron. It was a shock, you know it was.”

“We’ve been hinting long enough,” says Ron. “You know Harry - it’s -”

Draco, mindful of the thin walls, holds up his hands. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen him and I’ll make sure he gets something to eat.”

Hermione smiles at him. “Oh thank you Draco. I feel much better knowing he’s with you. Tell him not to worry about the dinner.” She nudges Ron. “Come on. He’s safe.”  
Ron gives him a brief salute, and Harry comes back into the room just as they hear him mutter, “Never thought I’d hear that.” Followed by Hermione’s “Shhh, Ron. He’ll hear you.”

Draco welcomes him with a smile. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. Now sit down and let me get you something to eat.”

“There’s not much in your fridge,” Harry blurts, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Sorry. I just couldn’t imagine _you_ having a fridge so I looked inside. You do realise it’s not just for decoration, don’t you. You’re supposed to keep food inside.”

Draco folds his arms. The cheeky bugger. “Oh is that what it is? I couldn’t work out why it was _so fucking cold_. Thanks for clearing that up, Harry. How would I manage the shop without the benefit of your incredible intellect?”

Harry shrugs. He’s looking better already. “I am feeling a bit peckish though. Don’t suppose you have a House Elf on call.”

Draco looks at him, scandalised. “I’ll tell Hermione on you. Does it _look_ like I’ve got a House Elf?”

Harry surveys the sitting room, which, to Draco’s eyes, is distressingly disordered. Looking around he itches to straighten the book on the coffee table, and the hearth rug is at least three inches out of alignment with the hearthstone.

“Looks pretty good to me. I’d never get it this tidy on my own."

Draco huffs, remembering the confusion that reigned in the shop before he insisted on taking responsibility for the stock room. “Well I haven’t. They were confiscated, along with all the decent furniture. Hence this -- stuff.”

“Should have gone to Ikea,” Harry says, eyeing his whisky dubiously before taking a sip. “Not bad.”

“I should hope not. Mr Borteg imports that from Japan.”

He takes a sip too and they sit in companionable silence until Harry’s stomach protests, loudly.

Draco jumps up. “There’s a fantastic Indian round the corner. Tell me what you like and I’ll go and pick some up.” He waves Harry down as he starts to get to his feet. “I won’t be long.”

“Curry?” Harry smirks at him. “Sorry - it’s a night of revelations. Whatever’s on special will do me. And _garlic_ naan, please.” He reaches into his pocket and flushes. “Sorry. I seem to have left wallet at the -- flat. I was going to say ’ _home_ ’,” he adds, forlornly.

“Don’t worry about it.” Draco shoots a puff of air at the fire. “I’ll be back soon - and keep out of my kitchen.” He heads to his room to pull on trousers and a jumper. Flying snitches would be hard to explain in a Muggle takeaway, and he has no wish to attract further Ministry attention.

\--------------------------------------------

Walking briskly through the chilly evening - for the Autumn nights are drawing in -he can’t quite believe that Harry, Harry Potter, is just sitting there, in his flat, waiting for him to bring home a curry. Even if the Chief Seer himself had told him, he wouldn’t have believed him, even last year. Even this evening.

But it’s true. At least he thinks it is. And he hurries home, the fragrant brown bag swinging from his arm, half expecting to find his flat cold and silent as usual.  
Coming through the door he finds the lights ablaze, and Harry, on his hands and knees, arranging logs in the grate, whilst one of his Muggle CD’s plays on his stereo. One of the few advantages of still living in a Muggle neighbourhood is that the electronic equipment doesn’t keep blowing a fuse, and the sound quality is so much better with his disk-machine than those scratchy records the Ministry took away.

“That smells good. I didn’t get the plates out as I assume they’re in the kitchen. Where apparently I’m not allowed.” He gets up, brushing soot off his hands and on to the hearthrug, but Draco hasn’t the heart to complain, not when he looks so much more cheerful than he did just a few minutes earlier.

“Correct. I’ll lay the table if you open the beer.” He passes over the pack of bottles he picked up at the takeaway.

Harry raises an eyebrow and Draco huffs. “Don’t look so surprised. I don’t live off caviar and champagne you know.”

“It doesn’t look like you live off anything much.” Harry snaps off the caps and hands him one of the narrow green bottles, before opening his own and clinking it against his. "No wonder you're so slim."

“I’m not a very good cook,” Draco admits. “Never had to learn - so I usually have my main meal at lunch and a sandwich when I get home. But don’t tell my mother that. She’d be horrified.”

“So am I,” says Harry, and he does, in fact, look scandalised. “But there’s little chance of my chatting with your mother, so don’t worry.” He follows Draco through to the kitchen. “Don’t bother laying the table. Let’s just eat in the sitting room. It looks quite cosy now I’ve got the fire going.”

“Philistine,” Draco mutters, but he follows Harry back to the sitting room and sets the plates on the coffee table.


	2. Chapter 2

“The worst of it is,” Harry begins, looking down at the curry in his lap. “The very worst thing - I just wonder how long they’ve wanted me gone. I’m such an idiot. Looking back - I think they’ve been hinting for a while, but it just didn’t occur to me. But of course they want their own space. They don’t need a third wheel, especially after the baby.” His voice falters and he stares miserably into his beer.

Draco leans forward and takes the bottle gently from his hands. “Look at me.”

He waits until Harry meets his eyes.

“You are _not_ an idiot.”

Harry shakes his head, and Draco sighs.

“I’m not going to say that again, and I’ll deny it if you ever ask, so you’d better remember it.”

That draws a small smile, which is better, because for a moment there he thought Harry was close to tears. He hurries on.

“You and Hermione, and Weasley, you’re like comrades in arms, your friendship is battle hardened. You _know_ they don’t really want you gone. You’ll always be the closest thing they have -”

“Outside of their family,” finishes Harry, quietly. “I know it’s only natural, and I’m such a -” Draco turns a stern eye on him and he changes tack. “They were my family, and the whole thing with the baby, it made me realise that one day they’ll have a family, a proper family, and I’ll just be -.” He stops.

Draco looks away. “What?” He prompts. “You’ll just be what?”

Harry taps his beer bottle against the plate for a moment. “I haven’t really told you what it was like for me, growing up, but you’ve probably -” He pulls a face. “Everyone has.”

“Yes, I think I know - something.”

“Well what Skeeter and the rest don’t know, thank fuck, is that I used to walk the streets, in the evenings, looking in at other people’s windows. I’d see families watching telly together, or having a meal, and for a while I’d pretend to myself that I was - well, one of them, I suppose - but then I always had to go back, to Privet Drive. And then one of the neighbours told Aunt Petunia that he thought I was sizing the place up - for a burglary - you know, and so they locked me in. For weeks. I didn’t dare do it after that.” He shrugs. “It’s silly really.”

“Doesn’t sound silly to me.”

“Well I made it sound all Little Match Girl, and I didn’t get much food, but my Aunt didn’t want me actually starving on her watch, the neighbours might talk.”

Draco looks at him. Harry may not have been starving, precisely, but he remembers the pale, skinny boy he met all those years ago in Madam Malkin’s and, forgetting - for once - to cringe as he recalls that ill-fated conversation, he recalls his surprise that Harry Potter, The Harry Potter, was so dowdy, so small so insignificant looking. Well he doesn’t look insignificant now, not with his broad shoulders and Quidditch toned arms.

He shakes his head. “Perhaps not starving _technically_ , but starving for affection, from the sound of it.”

Harry shrugs and his eyes slide away. “Maybe.”

Draco doesn’t press it, choosing instead to offer him a particularly spicy dip for his papadums.

“I just made the mistake of thinking I’d be part of that family - the Weasleys - forever. Tonight I realised I don’t really belong there, or anywhere, really especially since Gin and I split up. I don’t have anyone of my - Jesus Merlin Draco! What the fuck did I just eat?”

Draco grins in spite of himself. “Chilli sauce, it’s their speciality. What do you think?”

Harry splutters, his eyes watering, gasping for air. “Er, hot?”

“My favourite.” After a moment he takes pity and goes to fetch a glass of milk from his much-maligned fridge.

“This should help.”

When Harry is calm once more, Draco settles back in his chair.

“I don’t know what it’s been like for you, of course, but, in a manner of speaking, I too have to make my way alone - though for me it’s a relief to be free to choose.”

“How is your mother these days?” Harry asks, prodding once more at something unidentifiable but apparently delicious.

“Improving. She still won’t consider coming back to England, of course. So I suppose I’ll be on my own at Christmas again.” He shrugs. It’s not as bad as it was, before he met Harry and the others, but there’s something about waking up alone on Christmas morning that invariably sends him into a spiral of regret.

“You don’t have anyone, er special?” Harry’s speech is becoming slurred and Draco wonders if whisky and lager on an empty stomach were such a good idea after all. He also wonders if that pronoun was intentionally neutral.

“Not very likely is it? I’ve not got much going for me, apart from the joint ownership of an admittedly thriving broomstick shop.”

“I don’t know. Some of the customers get the giggles whenever you venture out of the stock room." Harry tips his bottle and peers inside as if to weigh up quite how much he’s had.

Draco looks at him in astonishment. “And _you_ think that’s -? They’re probably just amused to see a Malfoy fall so low.” At Harry’s glare he amends, “Not that _I_ think that, but I am the first Malfoy to enter ‘trade’ in six generations. My ancestors are probably churning up the family crypt even as we speak.”

“I don’t think it’s that at all,” says Harry. “They fancy you. Even _I_ noticed, and I’m crap at that kind of stuff. Women don’t giggle about whatever it was you called them that time - oh yeah, ‘reduced circumstances’ -” he quotes with a grimace, “They giggle because they think someone’s fit. Which you are.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he says, referring to the women rather than that last, bewildering, sentence, and not knowing whether he’s more relieved or disappointed when Harry doesn’t appear to notice.

“Pisser,” says Harry, lurching to his feet and looking vaguely around.

“Merlin, you really are uncouth aren’t you, Potter? That way, try not to fall over the -,” he tries to withhold a snigger as Harry curses. “Never mind.”

By the time Harry returns Draco has had rather strict words with himself. Harry has, over the last year, become more than a casual acquaintance, more even than a colleague and business partner. All expectations to the contrary, Harry seems to want to be his friend, though Merlin knows why. Perhaps he really did look so pathetic last year that he unwittingly triggered Harry’s undeniable saviour complex. However, there are friends and there are friends and his new position in society, his new hold on life, are too tenuous for him to risk sharing more than he must.

“I think,” says Harry, meandering back to the sofa and curling up right where Draco normally sits, “I think I might have had too much to drink. Don’t tell ‘Mione."

Draco raises an eyebrow. “You’re a grown man, you can do what you like, surely.”

“Yes, _I_ know that,” says Harry, opening one petulant eye, looking at him sternly, and closing it again. “But you know ‘Mione, she’ll think it’s all her fault and probably stage a - a - an interfection or something.”

Draco regards him with amusement - and something else, something which, even half pissed, he prefers not to consider too closely. Amusement is acceptable, sympathy is fine, but -- concern? Concern is for family - his parents, or, latterly, just his mother. Concern is for people tied by blood and those jean things Hermione’s always going about. Concern is not for people who come back into his life, turn it upside down and then hang around, looking all forlorn and curl up on his sofa like they _belong_ there.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” he says, after a few minutes. He clears his throat.

Harry opens the other eye. “No.”

He folds his arms. “No? It’s my house, Potter, do I have to remind you?”

“Not much of a house. Doesn’t look like anyone even lives here.”

“In that case,” Draco says, unable to keep the bite from his voice as he levers himself to his feet. “You won’t have any objection to going home, will you?”

“Don’t have a home.”

Draco sighs, feeling himself waver.

“Too pissed to _Apparate_ ,” comes a dejected mumble from the sofa, and Draco groans. He’s right, and it’s not as if the floo would fit him, not with those Stupidly Wide Shoulders.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

It only takes him a few seconds to retrieve a pillow and blanket and pour a glass of water and hangover potion - his uninvited guest will be needing _that_ in the morning, but when he returns to the sitting room he is greeted by nothing but a half-stifled snore and a sleeping Harry. Scrubbing his hand through his hair he stands there for a long moment, watching as Harry’s features soften and relax, until, realising he is still holding the blanket he carefully tucks in his guest, and dims the lights.


	3. Thunderbolts are Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just to confuse everyone, this missing scene, 'Thunderbolts are Go' comes before the previous missing two scenes ('Moving In') 
> 
> Harry has recently working at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Draco is supplying him with racing brooms. I could have put them as a separate story but quite a lot of people have subscribed to this set of missing scenes so I thought they'd probably prefer to get the alert. Let me know if it's too confusing.
> 
> Thanks to lemondrops154 who wrote such a lovely motivating review that a whole new scene popped into my head. I wish my brain would develop scenes chronologically though.

 

“And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if you can get hold of ten dozen Thunderbolt Supremes, that should cover me for the next few weeks.”

Draco’s quill bobs in the air as he tries to control the quiver in his voice. “One hundred and twenty Thunderbolt Supremes?”

“Yes, one hundred and twenty. Problem with that, Malfoy?” Potter crosses his arms and leans against the rough wood of the shop counter.

He fights to restrain a smile. “No, no. Nothing wrong with that. I, just -.”

“Yes?” says Potter, dangerously.

“I wondered why they were selling so well. I, er-” he glances up through his hair and decides to go for it. “Hadn’t realised you were having to buy them all up yourself.”

Potter scowls. “They’re very popular with the kids. It’s not _my_ fault.”

He bites down on a smile. “I understand they’re very, er, sturdy. And will you be wanting any Thunderbolt TM merchandise to go with that? I’ve got the Harry Helmet, the Saviour’s Saddle Saver and the um, _Pott-of-tastic_ haemorrhoid cream. I’m sure I could do a special deal - as it’s for _you_ , Potter.”

Harry stares at him, wide-eyed.

Draco tilts his head and waits, his quill hovering expectantly over the order book.

“Oh bloody hell -” For a moment it looks like Potter is going to have an apoplexy or something. Suddenly he grins, his eyes crinkling as he meets Draco’s gaze, before breaking into a full-throated chuckle, and this time Draco can’t help but smile back.

“You would not _believe_ the piss-take I’ve been getting off Ron. Anyone would think they’d got my whole fucking face carved into the shaft and not just the scar.”

Draco tucks his quill into his breast pocket and starts to pull on his gloves. “I understand that’s for the Mark II.”

For a moment Potter looks like he might vomit, and he’s not surprised. The Harry Potter merchandise sweeping the country is enough to make anyone sick, and it’s not like he’s getting any of the proceeds. Although, thinks Draco, if he did he’d probably just give them all to charity. Still, it might have been an idea to trademark his name.

“They’re not _really_ going to?” Potter begins, and he hastens to reassure him.

“Not that I know of. But the pile cream - that’s for real, I’m afraid. Um, sorry,” he adds, helpfully.

Potter snorts. “I’m sure you are." He leans back against the counter and looks like he’s settling in for a chat. “They really are awful brooms, aren’t they? I wouldn’t have minded quite so much if it’d been that new Nimbus, something really quick and showy, but the Thunderbolt is the broomstick equivalent of a Vauxhall Corsa.”

“Oh I don’t know.” Draco considers this, his head tilting to one side. “The Corsa is a very reliable car, so I hear. Cheap too. _What_?”

Potter points at him. “You. Talking about Muggle cars. It’s all wrong.” He waves Draco’s protests away. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’ve been living in a Muggle area - and that’s something I’d like to see, I can tell you - but it’s just so, I dunno, not the Draco Malfoy I love to hate.”

Turning to scrabble in his bag for his self-control and the latest Nimbus catalogue, so that he can chuck it on the counter and leave before he says something he might regret, he manages, “Well, you may not have noticed, but I’m trying very hard to _not_ be the Draco Malfoy you love to hate. But it’s clearly wasted on - mmmphhf,” His words are muffled by a hand, a very strong hand, across his mouth, his lips. He yanks it away. “What the _hell_ , Potter? You can’t go around assaulting people just because they -”

Potter pulls his arm away, contrition softening his gaze. “I was just joking. I thought we were -.” He sighs. “I’m a tactless idiot, Hermione’s always telling me, but I really didn’t mean anything by it. I was just talking to you like I talk to, I dunno, Ron, or Bill - I really didn’t -.”

It’s Draco’s turn to feel awkward now. Has it really been so long that he’s forgotten how to do this? Apparently so.

“Sorry.” He can manage that. He’s had to. And then, because Harry still looks crushed to an unreasonable degree, he adds - “Sometimes I think I’ve forgotten how to talk to people."

Potter eyes him curiously now. “Don’t worry about it. Look.” He glances towards the door and back to Draco. “Do you - would you like to - Hermione and I are meeting at six over at that new pub near Gringotts. Ron’s away on training. You could come along, um, if you want?”

Draco pulls out his watch, Merlin, it’s already ten to six - his mother is going to start worrying again. He starts to bundle the order books into his bag.

“Sorry Potter, I’ve got to go - something important.”

If he’s not at that Firecall by half-six his mother will probably send his Aunt Andromeda to track him down. And she wasn’t very impressed last time. He throws his bag over his shoulder and it is not until Harry moves to open the door for him that he realises what that sounded like. He stops.

“My mother,” he belatedly explains. “Gets very upset if I don’t call on time. You know what they’re like.”

_Shit._ He briefly considers slapping himself in the face, but thankfully stops himself in time. Potter is already looking at him strangely. And for a brief, panicked, moment he thinks Potter’s going to say something, that he’s tried but this is the final straw; but all he does is bark out a sharp little laugh and say -

“Molly Weasley’s just as bad.”

Draco pushes the door open with one hand.

“Draco?”

He turns and braces himself. “Yes?”

“Harry. Okay?”

Draco nods, and plunges into the streaming throng of workers and shoppers before he can make this any worse.

 

\-----------------------------------

“Oh!" Harry opens the door. It’s after hours and the shop is deserted. “I thought you’d send a messenger."

Draco shrugs and follows him in, stepping over the piles of stock and wrappings scattered everywhere.

“I was passing. Thought I’d save him a trip."

That’s a lie of course, but Harry doesn’t need to know that. _Harry_. He rolls the name around his tongue. He’s tried it so many times he’s not sure it feels real any more. If he actually goes and says it it might come out like some sort of gobbledygook, and then Harry will just look at him and-

“It’s good to see you again.”

Draco stops and looks at him as he jumps up onto the counter, all relaxed and - chummy. Something stutters inside him.

“I’ve got all your Thunderbolts. I’ll help you to unpack them, if you like.” He holds out a crate to Harry, who leans over and starts to count out the boxes of miniaturised brooms.

He glances up and smiled. “Thanks, that would really help. It’s a bit chaotic in here I’m afraid. Old Mr Virga was getting too old to cope when he retired and I haven’t managed to sort it all out yet. To be honest I wouldn’t be surprised if he sold the place soon.”

“What will you do then?” Draco asks, a hard knot of something dull and solid settling in the pit of his stomach. It’s stupid, having so much reliance on one person. Not when the Americans are so friendly over the Floo, and he’s got his weekly Firecalls with his mother in France. But these monthly meetings with Harry have developed into something different, something almost friendly. Something he’s started to look forward to.

He follows Harry to the stockroom and halts at the doorway in horror. He looks around.

“Merlin.”

There are brooms propped against every surface, piles and piles of Quidditch jerseys in all different colours and strips on the shelves against the wall, and is that? Yes, a top of the range Nimbus Millennium under a teetering stack of practice boots.

Harry follows his gaze. “Yes, it is a bit of a mess isn’t it?” He shrugs helplessly and nudges the Nimbus further under the boots. As if Draco wouldn’t notice. “If Mr Virga sells up, I wouldn’t have minded taking it on, but I’m beginning to realise it’s too much for one person to manage. Shame really.”

“You could get some help," Draco suggests, pulling out his wand to at least clear some space on the racks.

Harry moves to wipe some of the dust away with his sleeve. It makes very little difference. “Well it’s not _only_ that. I’ve put a bit of my parents’ money into restoring Grimmauld Place, and I’ve set some aside for Teddy, as you probably know."

Draco looks away, embarrassed. He too is putting some money aside for his young cousin, but he doubts it’s anywhere near as much as Harry is. Still, Andromeda seems to have rallied and they are all hoping that Teddy’s desperate reliance on her will get her through the next few years. She won’t be able to cover his Hogwart’s fees though, not after being cut off by the Blacks on her marriage, and he doubts Lupin ever managed to squirrel away much.

“You need an investor.”

Rumour has it that a lot of the Potter money also went into setting up the Children’s Holiday Centre out near Killin, a place where the Hogwart’s students with nowhere to go for the holidays could have fun and learn life skills to prepare them for a future with no family to fall back on. Given the size of the place he’d be surprised if there was much of the Potter fortune left at all. Not that Harry has ever spoken of it publicly.

“Or a partner.” Harry shrugs. “But I don’t even know if he’s selling, so there’s not much point talking about it. But it would keep Hermione off my back if I at least _owned_ the place.”

“Is she still talking about doing some proper training?” He is hesitant to say much. He likes Hermione, now that he knows her a little better, but he can sense her frustration that Harry hasn’t done more with his talents, even though she’s careful not to say anything to Harry himself.

“I can see where she’s coming from.” Harry levitates the brooms into little stacks; entirely randomly as far as Draco can tell. “And I wouldn’t want to serve in a broom shop for the rest of my life. But if I actually owned it - if it was mine and I could do what I liked with it - well I think I’d quite enjoy that.”

Draco waves him away with his wand. “Let me sort that out. You go and unpack the rest of those boxes."

“Really?” Harry turns to look at him, uncertainty clouding his face. “It seems a bit mean to make you unpack them when you’ve carried them all the way here.”

Draco huffs. “It’s fine. I’ve got nothing better to do tonight.” And there’s his cue. He turns to the far corner of the stock room and begins to sort the contents of the racks. “ _So, Harry, do you fancy getting a drink? I’ve got the new Nimbus catalogue in my bag but I’ve been on my feet all day, and it’s past six now_.” That’s all he has to say.

What he _actually_ manages to say is, “So, Harry. Drink? Feet?”

“Er?” says Harry, frozen in the doorway.

Draco wipes a dusty hand over his damp face. “That came out a bit - wrong. Not sure what happened there.”

“Why don’t you try again,” Harry suggests in helpful tones tinged with amusement.

He turns back to his shelving. If he looks hard enough he’ll probably find a vintage Silver Arrow down here.

He tries again. “Do you fancy a drink after this? I’m free all evening. Unless you’ve got something planned already, which you probably have, so don’t feel -” He rounds up the tins of broom polish and sends them flying into a drawer with a little too much force. They bounce back and scatter all over the floor.

Harry bends down and starts to gather them up, his face hidden. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Sorry, what?” He stands there, his wand dangling in his hand. It shouldn’t surprise him, not after Harry’s invitation the other day, but somehow it still does.

Crouching on the floor now, gathering up the polish tins, Harry smiles up at him. “I’d like that.”

“Oh. Great. That’s good. I’ll just put those away, then.” Dazedly he drops to his knees to help.

 

After that they tidy away remarkably quickly, and it’s only seven by the clock on the wall when Harry stretches and cracks his shoulders. “I think we’re done here.” He looks around. “Much better. Thanks to you.”

The brooms are now stacked by brand and model, the clothing sorted by size, and everything else is piled up by the door waiting to go in the shelving behind the counter.

Draco glances up at the ceiling. “Hope we haven’t disturbed Mr Virga. He lives above the shop, doesn’t he?”

Harry nods and pulls a sweater over the dusty white t-shirt he stripped down to for the sorting. “He can’t hear a thing. You could probably set off the entire contents of Wizarding Wheezes down here and he’d never notice." He picks up Draco’s coat from the shelf and dusts it down before regarding it dubiously and holding it out.

“Thanks.” Draco buttons it up before wrapping his scarf carefully around his neck. It is unseasonably chilly and he shivers involuntarily at the thought of how cold his flat is going to be tonight.

At the shop door Harry turns to him and puts out a hand. “You can’t go out looking like that.”

For a moment Draco freezes. Perhaps Harry wants him to Polyjuice, or wear a glamour, or maybe just change the colour of his hair. He wants to tell him where to go, he’s _going_ to tell him where to go, but, as he opens his mouth to speak, soft wool ghosts across his cheek.

He stares, stupidly.

Harry smiles and nudges him through the door and out into the street. “You had a smear right down your face. Come on, Draco, last one to the bar buys the first round.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

Christmas 2003

 

“So,” says Harry, putting the finishing touches to a frankly alarming window display of tinsel and fairies - unionised ones of course, no one wants an enraged Granger on the doorstep. “You’re not going to your mother’s this Christmas.”

Draco stiffens, and then picks up the wood polish. “No.”

They still haven’t talked about it - that night at his flat - nothing beyond a few awkward thanks and a carefully folded blanket. He knows what’s wrong, of course. Harry regrets letting Draco, his old enemy even if that’s all but forgotten now, seeing him in his moment of weakness. He’d probably do the same in Harry’s shoes, but it has left him with an awful lot of questions.

Harry sets the Christmas carols to play with a swish of his wand and turns to face him. “We’re having a few drinks, Christmas Eve, at our place.”

Draco looks away and rubs a little harder at the stained wood. They’re not talking about _that_ either.

“They’ve found another place else already?” Honestly, he expected more tact from Hermione.

“Not yet, they’re giving me time to find other housemates - or another flat,” says Harry, tucking his wand into his sleeve. “But it’s our last Christmas together. You should come over.”

Draco eyes him warily.

“Housemates?”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t really fancy it. It’d be like going back to Hogwarts - but with a bit more privacy for wanking.” He grins at that. “Though, I have to say, having ‘Mione in the next room always put me off my stroke, so to speak, and you should have heard the _noises_ she and -”

Draco holds up his hand.

“Enough!”

He’ll never be able to look Hermione - Ron - _anyone_ in the face again. He tucks the polish away in the top drawer and pulls out the stock inventory, which, under his capable hands, is now a document of order and method.

“Well, I think it’s a terrible idea, so don’t come complaining to me if you end up with some crazed fan hiding in your wardrobe and sticking love potion in your tea.”

“Mione thinks it’ll keep me from getting lonely,” says Harry, opening up the till.

Draco shakes his head. “If it gets that bad, call me. I’m not exactly overwhelmed with social invitations.”

“And yet,” says Harry, with a quirk of his eyebrow. “You ignore mine. I might take offence Malfoy.”

“I-” Draco looks at him, properly this time. Maybe he has insulted him. It’s happened before. He just doesn’t know how to talk to people these days. Too used to looking for hidden meanings in every social interaction, he forgets that his new - acquaintances, _friends_? - tend to just say what they mean.

“I - just thought, your last Christmas with them. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “They’re not emigrating to Australia. Look. You’re not intruding. They like you. God, even _I_ like you. Anyway, if you’re there Hermione is much less likely to cry.”

“Merlin forbid,” says Draco. “All right then. I suppose it can’t be any worse than last year. Should I bring my cheese?”

 

——————————————————

 

He should have expected this. Or something like this. Maybe not hugs, they’re rather outside the bounds of his experience. But perhaps they’re par for the course with Gryffindors.

“Oh Draco!”

He bats away a mouthful of hair.

“Calm down, Granger. He’s fine. It was nothing.”

Not for worlds is he going to tell her Harry’s state that night, even if he half wishes she could have seen it, witnessed what they’d done to him.

She checks over her shoulder, but it’s all right, Harry is by the window, opening a bottle of champagne with determined bonhomie.

“You were there for him. We appreciate it Draco, we really do.”

He bites his tongue.

“I was there at the right time. That’s all. Anyone else would have done the same.”

“He’s very fond of you. He wouldn’t have gone to just anyone.”

He turns to hang up his coat in the crowded rack. “He was half crazed with hunger, the silly bugger. I’m under no illusions, Granger, I’m his latest project - and I’m not ungrateful, believe me.”

“Granger again is it? Hey Malfoy!” says Weasley, coming over and slinging an arm around them both.

Merlin’s balls, what is it with Gryffindors and physical affection? But in Weasley’s case he suspects the Auror’s Christmas drinks may have something to do with it.

“My apologies.” He gives them each a brief nod. “Hermione. It can be hard to break the habits of a life time, but I do try.”

Fortunately Luna Lovegood is waving to him from the window seat. She seems to be wearing some kind of octopus on her head. Hopefully it's not alive.

“I think I made him feel uncomfortable,” he hears, as he steps over the legs of an already half pissed Longbottom who, surprisingly, has turned out rather - _nice_ , and good grief, Hannah Abbott, and heads for Luna, and sanctuary, of a sort.


	5. It's all in the jeans...

 

“You’re coming.”

“Oh no I’m not.” He backs towards the door of the flat. With any luck he can get to the street and _Disapparate_ out of this madness.

“Oh yes you are!”

This is all sounding strangely familiar. He reaches for his coat, but it’s buried under a pile of cloaks. _Accio_ it is then.

“I’m not, Harry, I can’t possibly. Be reasonable.”

“You promised!” Harry sticks out a petulant lip. He’s pissed too. They’re all pissed.

He raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Jesus, Potter, I’d just downed one of Weasley’s cocktails. Malfoys don’t belong at Weasley family parties. Everyone knows that.”

“I don’t know that. I think you’d have a great time.”

“Maybe so.” _Unlikely_. He puts out a hand. “But has it occurred to you that the Weasleys might not want an ex-Death Eater at their house?”

“They invited you.” Harry crosses his arms and stares him down.

“ _What?_ ”

“They invited you, sent a message over with George. They know you’re - - here.”

Alone. They know he’s alone, and Harry’s somehow persuaded them, against their better sense, to invite along his pity project. Well, this has gone far enough.

“George threatened to spell my clothes transparent, that’s not exactly an invitation!”

“He was joking. Probably. Anyway, I’m here and you are definitely coming to the Weasley Christmas Party. They’re all waiting for you -”

“Yes, to spell my clothes transparent! Forgive me if that isn’t on my Christmas list this year Potter.”

“You’re staying.” Harry whips out his wand with surprising speed. “ _Colloportus!_ ”

Draco turns to look at the door. Then he turns to look at Harry. “You do realise I could open that with a simple ‘ _Alohomora_ ’.”

“But you haven’t.”

Draco sighs. “Only because you’re still holding my wand hand.”

“In that case,” says Harry. “I’m not letting go. Come on, let’s get you ready. Or-” he adds, with a look Draco suspects is meant to be cunning, “I’ll assume you don’t want to mix with people like the Weasleys.”

Draco’s neck whips back in shock.

“Hey,” says Harry, his eyes stricken, his hand still gripping Draco’s arm. “I didn’t - oh I’m really crap at this. I’m joking. Not very well, it seems. It - I wouldn’t take the piss if you weren’t one of us now.”

“Well I’m not,” says Draco stiffly, but he lets himself be dragged back through the hall and towards the noise of the living room. “Look at us - we couldn’t be more different. We - well, _we_ get on now, but you can’t drag everyone else into this.”

“No one’s dragging anyone,” says Harry, all evidence to the contrary as Draco is towed across the room.

“He’s coming!”

There’s a cheer from the sofa by the hearth, and a not very well disguised groan from the drinks table.

“Not like that he isn’t.”

Draco turns, half-relieved, half something he doesn’t want to name.

“Weasley.”

“He’s right you know,” chimes in Granger, who has retreated to the living room. _Hermione_. She’s pissed too of course, what with her cryptic messages. “You’ll freeze to death - it’s so crowded everyone always spills out into the garden.”

“And?” He’s at a loss to know where this is going.

“No warming charms,” she says, gently. “Not big ones.”

Draco flushes.

“I can just go home. It’s fine.” He turns to Weasley. “Please thank your parents for extending such a kind invitation, and do pass on my sincere apologies.”

Weasley rolls his eyes and tips back his beer.

“You’re coming,” says Harry, his feet planted firmly in the carpet, his hands on his hips.

“Like this?” Draco faces him across the hearthrug. He glances round. It’s just them, although a few of the people on the sofa are watching them with interest. “I’m not dressed for it. Hermione said it - I’ll freeze.”

“He’ll freeze anyway if George has anything to say about it,” mutters Weasley.

Hermione walks in front of him and looks him over consideringly.

“I can do something with this. Harry, do you still have those jeans - you know, the ones Ginny bought you, back when you were -?”

Harry’s eyes bulge. “The fashionably tight ones I refused to wear? Yeah. Why?”

“Yes.” She nods. “Come along Draco, and you, Harry. We’ve got twenty minutes, I should be able to manage _something_.”

Oh good grief, it’s project fucking save Draco Malfoy. They’re all doomed.


End file.
